


the devil comes back

by takingoffmyshoes



Series: short story celebration [2]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Racism, Gen, Slurs, Snark, canon-typical rude language, just a bit but it's alfie so, maybe an itsy bitsy smidge of h/c, rudeness abounds, that's it that's the story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-23 00:29:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13775844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/pseuds/takingoffmyshoes
Summary: Excerpts From An Account of the Strange and DisreputableFriendshipPartnership of Alfie Solomons and Tommy Shelby(in which Tommy has a habit of turning up when things’ve gone wrong, and Alfie has a habit of wishing he fucking wouldn’t.)





	the devil comes back

**Author's Note:**

> written for [Jessy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ister/pseuds/ister) as part of my short story celebration on tumblr

The first time they meet, Tommy is steady on his feet but only barely, and the fact that he can see out of both of his eyes doesn’t change the fact that one of them is filled with blood.

He’s still wrung out from the fever and his ribs are still broken and his face is still throbbing and worst of all he is _still_ so fucking _tired_ , but Solomons doesn’t mention a thing.

He does throw a crumpled up handkerchief at him when his broken nose starts to trickle a thin red line down his lip, but he does it with such a look of disgusted irritation that Tommy uses his sleeve just to spite him.

He keeps the handkerchief, though.

+

“You got a little somethin’, right there.” Solomons taps a finger against his own cheek, and Tommy pulls out his handkerchief to scrub at the spot. It comes away red.

“Not yours, then?” Solomons asks. Tommy just looks at him.

“Same dead eyes, though,” Solomons says, flippant. “I was wondering if they was part of the beating. Guess you come by ‘em naturally.”

+

They have an argument, next time, of the sort that ends in threats and bruises but nothing serious. At least, that’s what Tommy thinks until Alfie slams his head against the wall and pins him there with one large hand around the back of his neck.

 _Enough with the fucking head,_ he wants to say, but is distracted by the way the vertebrae seem to be grinding together.

“You ever trapped a snake?” Alfie murmurs in his ear. “This is ‘ow you do it.” The hand presses harder, enough to make his head arch back reflexively. “Gotta pin 'em by the neck, so they can’t twist around and bite you.”

“Do you think I’m going to bite you, Alfie?” Tommy asks. “Or is this just some friendly advice?”

Abruptly, Alfie lets him go and steps back.

“The thing about snakes,” he says, conversational, like the past ten seconds never happened, “is that they’re opportunists. They’re always waiting for the right moment, and when it comes along…” He mimes a sudden strike with his hand.

“Only if they’re hungry,” Tommy says evenly, turning so he’s leaning back against the wall. “Or trapped.” He pulls his cigarette case out of his pocket and flips it open. “In fact, I’d say that a trapped snake is the most dangerous snake of all, no matter where you have your hand.” He slips the paper between his lips and lights it, takes a deep, savory breath, and lets it out. “Sooner or later, that hand is going to have to move.”

+

“You’re fuckin’ ridiculous, you know that, right?”

“Sure,” Tommy says, not opening his eyes.

“I mean a real fucking piece of work, yeah?”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

Alfie cuffs him on the back of the head. “Then what the fuck are you doing sitting in my chair?”

“’S not your chair,” Tommy slurs, rocking forward with the force of the blow. He lifts a heavy arm to point across the desk. _“That’s_ your chair.” Alfie blurs above him, hands on his hips. Tommy can’t quite see his expression, the way his face is swimming in and out of focus, but he can imagine it.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Alfie finally asks. “Are you fucking high? Or just stupid? This ain’t your fuckin’ caravan, mate. Now go on, be a good boy and fuck off. Shoo.” He even does the little wave.

It’s dizzying, so Tommy lets his eyes drift shut again. “Can’t stand,” he says. “This was closest.”

“Closest to what?” Alfie snaps, and kicks the chair. “Listen boyo, if someone pounded your 'ead in again I’m not gonna stop them comin’ in 'ere and finishin’ the job.”

“Yes you will.” That’s why he came here, isn’t it? “You don’t let anyone in here. Anyone 'cept me.”

There’s a long silence. Or maybe it’s short. He doesn’t fucking know. Doesn’t fucking matter.

“Fuck off,” Alfie says again, but this time there’s a hand around his arm, hauling him up out of the chair, and broad shoulders sliding underneath it, taking his weight. “You know why you shouldn’t do deals with the devil, tinker? Because the devil always comes back.”

+

“You need to learn to 'andle yourself better, little man,” Alfie says the second time Tommy shows up to a meeting with a broken nose.

“It was a horse,” Tommy tells him, voice still a bit thick, and Alfie snorts.

“Whatever you say, Thomas. Jus’ don’t bleed on the fuckin’ papers again, yeah?”

+

“Evening,” Tommy says cordially, stepping out of the shadows of the stone wall.

“Oh fuck no,” Alfie says, and slams the door in his face. From the other side comes the sound of several deadbolts slamming home.

Ah, well. Can’t win 'em all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
